A Flash In The Darkness
by Monty Twain
Summary: Holmes has been shot in the shoulder and he's only ever going to be one man's patient. Fluff with a little angst and lots of POVs. COMPLETE.
1. A Flash

Author's note- Hospitals were not in fact healthy environments to go. The rich had doctors visit them and the poor went to hospitals to die. It wasn't until Nightingale came and cleaned them up after the Crimean War that they were any good. So Holmes is quite right to have some of the opinions I've given him.

HOLMES

The woman shouldn't point a gun at us; we're the ones who are going to help her.

**A flash in the darkness.**

_A bullet wound to the shoulder… sounds familiar… _

_Not Charing Cross. Baker Street._ _No.. bound to get an infection there.._

**Watson.**

LESTRADE

He probably opened his eyes to see me looking frankly concerned for him, as I pulled the makeshift bandage (my winter scarf) tighter under his armpit. A cobbled street was agony, I found myself pulling him closer to prevent further jerks. It was not the most dignified position for him I imagine, almost lying in my lap, but I supposed neither of us would do it in any other circumstances.

"It's all right, Mr Holmes, we'll have you to the hospital in a few minutes. It's all right, say." Holmes had let out a little whimper that was not like him at all. He licked his lips and tried again.

"We mustn't go to the hospital, Lestrade."

"Why, pray tell me, when your blood is making such a mess on the seat of our cab?"

"I must see Watson…"

"Watson will be contacted as soon as we get to the 'Cross."

"He is my _doctor_, Lestrade. Make the cabbie go to Baker Street."

"He's mine, too, Holmes, but he's a general practitioner, not a surgeon."

"He is a fine surgeon, actually. I should know- he was in the army, you know, Les- oh _God_… Get me to him, Lestrade, _please!_" He'd grasped my hand and was writing in pain now.

I sighed. "Cabbie? 221b Baker Street, please. Sorry about the change of course."

"That's orate, sah- we're on Oxford Street now."

"Lestrade!" Holmes gasped again "I'm about to lose consciousness-"

"-Then you don't need to speak, Holmes."

"No, I need to tell you something. Lestrade…" His voice lowered. "If this happens again, and no doubt something like it will… I must never have any doctor but Watson, you hear? Even if it looks like I'm at death's door. Especially then, actually."

"Well, all right, Holmes, but what if-"

"No 'what-ifs', Lestrade… It _must..._" He was right, of course he was right. He passed out.

TheTyrannyOfTheMysteriousLineDeleterContinues

The burly lad I'd selected for the task of helping me carry Holmes into the hospital now assisted me as I ruined Mrs Hudson's carpet. I'd let myself in- the door wasn't locked.

"Watson, Holmes is hurt and you've got to-"

"HOLMES!" Watson's cry from landing was quite moving. I think he leapt about six of the steps and thundered over the rest. "Lestrade, what happened?" He turned to the constable. "Get him upstairs, the first room on the left is my bedroom, put him in there." He didn't so much as pretend that I'd shifted the weight. The lack of Watson's diplomacy was disconcerting. He turned to me. "Anything besides the shot wound?"

"No, and he refused to have another doctor."

This prompted a soft smile from him. "No, I suppose he wouldn't. Come upstairs, Lestrade, if you'd like, I can see you're worried about him. I'll ask you both to stay in the living room for now, though."

"Thank you, Doctor." I didn't address him by his prefix any longer, but it seemed appropriate now. I followed him as he sprinted up the stairs. He hastened to his desk, where he kept his bag and disappeared into the bedroom.

I heard him mutter, "Oh, Holmes," before the door shut behind him.

Was getting a bit long for the average oneshot, so next chapter will be up this evening, hopefully. Watson's POV is to come.


	2. Darkness

Author's note: Here be the second chapter and if anyone remembers him they might welcome back the insolent constable whom Lestrade caught dissing Holmes in another one of my stories- 'Loyalty', Woodward. I even took the liberty of giving him a POV. I promise he is a tolerable OC though. I think he's trying to understand Holmes' invasion on the Force.

Monty'sHatredForTheLineDeleterCanOnlyGetWorse

WATSON

I couldn't believe it. Holmes was there, spilling blood into my covers, and I could hardly move. In reality I hadn't done any real surgery for nearly a decade. My fingers twitched and flexed in apprehension, my throat had closed and I couldn't move I could not move I couldn't-

-Holmes shivered violently. 'Shock', we doctors call it. Blood loss. I imagined my medical heroes [only medical- my real hero was lying awaiting some saviour himself] on the battlefield- Paré the Renaissance surgeon, pouring turpentine onto screaming legionnaires, Galen amputating some poor gladiator's limbs…

Something of any of these men (for the idea of Holmes dying on my bed was more vivid than either of the scenes I had conjured momentarily) helped me considerably and I spurred into action.

Tweezers for the shot and to remove the sodden rag Lestrade had seen fit to . Thread to pull him back together, as if it were strong enough to hold the man of steel. In a moment of strange clarity I realised I was closer than I had ever been to the man's heart- that he was just as fragile as the rest of us.

My hands thankfully obeyed my request to work automatically. I watched myself execute some fine stitches, my hands forcing closed the open mouth that was like Death gaping at me. I pulled bandages around Holmes and finally sat down, not even washing his blood off my hands.

I was exhausted, and pulling my blanket over Holmes, I was tempted to go and sleep myself. But I had forgotten about my guests. I stood and put my hand on the doorknob, teasing it ajar, and leaned my head against the doorframe to cool it a little. Lestrade's quiet and respectable voice carried though, accompanied occasionally my the baritone of a man who'd I'd not so much as asked the name of before barking orders at him.

"Holmes not just an amateur, you understand, Woodward. He's one of us- a gentleman detective, that's all. Sometimes the Powers That Be don't give us a law to help everybody. Instead, we have Mr Holmes. He's a law unto himself, so he can help with some delicate injustices we simply cannot reach whilst wearing the blue uniform."

"Like a vigilante?"

"Not exactly, but occasionally he gets a little too close for my liking." I imagined he must have smiled.

"So what _is_ he like?"

"He's not _like_ anything, Woodward, you have to understand. But I think he's closest to being a Detective Inspector. If you stay in the force long enough, you'll see him around frequently, and I suppose if he retires –he's not the sort to, mind- you won't see another like- can I help you, Doctor?" I embarrassedly opened the door properly, remembering that it was not just Holmes' job to know if somebody is eavesdropping.

"Sorry Inspector, just tired. You wouldn't mind looking in on him whilst I wash my hands, would you?" His expression softened when he saw my honest fatigue, then he stiffened at the sight of my bloody hands.

"How is he?" he said, coming over to the door. A momentary glimpse of his worry as he passed me to go into my bedroom made me remember that he had known Holmes longer than I. Perhaps, though Holmes would never admit it, they were friends. Lestrade's admiration had been clear in his correspondence with the lad whom I was yet to address.

I stood by the wash basin and turned to the constable. He was boyish despite his size- yet he had a clumsy broadness that belonged to a man of around six foot three. "Once I've washed this off I shall have to shake your hand, Constable. I owe a lot to you, and I fear that previously I was rude."

"No sir, I understand that Mr Holmes important to a lot of people."

"I suppose he is," I dried my hands, scrutinising him now. It was a remark almost too shrewd for such a young man. "What's your name?"

"Woodward, sir. I'm a new recruit."

"I see. I'm Doctor Watson," I shook his hand, but then felt the need to sit shakily down.

WOODWARD

He seemed to lose his grip on my hand, almost. "Are you all right, Doctor?"

"Yes, though it is a little bit of a shock having a friend of yours arrive on your doorstep with a bullet in his shoulder." He disappeared into his hand then, and looked very faint. "It's rather like me, actually. I was shot in the same place when I was in the Army" He was mumbling through his hands, now.

"You look like you need a drink, sir."

"That's because I do." He emerged from his fears and stood up to pour himself one. "Lestrade'll have a brandy as well. And you, Woodward?"

I was unsure, but if Lestrade was having some… "Just a small one. Doctor… You care about him, don't you?" Oh no. Too far.

But he only hesitated at my intrusion for a moment. "Very much," he said quietly. He stood. "I'd better get back to him, actually."

OhTheInjusticeOfComputersWhenThey'reSupposedToBeOurFaithfulServants

Author's Note: This is going to take a THIRD chapter. I've had far too much fun and as a result forgotten all about Holmes. His POV is to come next, then it'll be over.


	3. Lucky

Author's note: Sorry about this, but it is the last chapter… Why it is I've done this instead of the epic I'd actually PLANNED, Ad Fin [**coming soon**], I don't know.

'sEditingSystemDance

LESTRADE

I sat and twiddled my thumbs whilst Watson chatted with Woodward (thankfully he tolerated the lad's nosy questioning which I had probably been a little too lenient towards) and stared at Holmes whilst he slept. It was odd not to see him fidgeting as he always seemed to, but when Watson came in he didn't appear to share my curiosity. I supposed he'd probably seen him this way before, minus the bandages.

"I took the liberty of pouring you a stiff one, Lestrade." I took the glass from him.

"Thank you." I said, watching him, a little surprised as he hastily necked the brandy down. "You have nerves of steel, Watson."

"It's only as nerve-racking as when you have to shoot a man."

"Which is very."

There was a pause. "Yes." He glanced over at Holmes. "It was even harder, it being…"

"Him," I finished for him.

"Indeed. You know there was a moment when I couldn't move? I felt…" he trailed off and looked at his friend for a long time. We both did. But after a while I realised Watson was never going to finish his sentence.

I stood up, opened the door and made eye contact with young Woodward, who was looking at his drink as if it might poison him. "I suppose we should get back to the Yard."

Watson started as if he hadn't noticed me rise. "Thank you, Lestrade. You know, if this ever were to happen again-"

"I would bring him here. You will sleep, tonight, Watson?"

"Probably not."

I patted his arm in a way that suggested more confidence than I actually had, and left the doctor to his vigil.

Perhaps he wasn't as much like a Detective Inspector as Watson.

WATSON

Contrary to what I told Lestrade, within a few moments I was asleep. I awoke to Holmes tugging on my shirt with his good hand.

"Go to bed, Watson." There was a little more colour in his face now, but I couldn't leave him.

"I can't, you're in it."

"Oh come now, off you go to my room."

"I'd rather not, Holmes; you gave me a bit of a shock."

It was the understatement of the nineteenth century.

HOLMES

"I can see I have done," I said slowly, calculating his worries. They'd probably trebled since I'd made Lestrade bring me here. "Did I do the right thing, not going to another doctor, Watson?"

He looked sharply up at me. "Of course. I wouldn't let any old quack lay his hands on you."

I relaxed. "Oh, good. I didn't really want another man to tweeze a pellet from my shoulder. It seems quite an intimate thing to do."

"Really, Holmes, many have settled with me even when I've been a stranger."

I tried to sit up to see him better, but he gently touched my chest in a gesture for me to lie down again, shifting his own position instead. I looked at him, wondering at his infinite patience. "Those people were rather lucky, then, weren't they, Watson?"

THE END 


End file.
